THE SURRENDER

Must I round my life to a song,

As the waves wear smooth the shore-stone?

Shall the mortal beat and throb

Of this heart of mine

Be only to crumble a dream,

And fashion the pebbles of fancy,

That the tides of time may cover,

Or a child may find?

Little in truth it matters;

But this at the most I know:

Infinite is the ocean

That thunders upon man's soul,

And the sooner the soul falls broken,

The smoother will be its song!